


this life (all I know)

by jjjat3am



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Fix-It, M'Baku's dad jokes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 12:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/jjjat3am
Summary: "We will take him,” M'Baku said, shrugging. “The Jabari could always use another set of hands. If he decides to hurl himself off a cliff instead, that’s none of my business.”or,Erik tries to put his life together after surviving his fight with T'Challa. M'Baku helps. In his way.





	this life (all I know)

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly just wanted M’Baku to tell more dad jokes.
> 
> Title is from ‘Pray for Me’ by Kendrick Lamar
> 
> The only warning I have is that there are occasional casual references to suicidal thoughts, in a similar vein as the summary. No actual violence happens in this fic. 
> 
> Mandla is M’Baku’s younger brother in comics canon, where he eventually takes up the mantle of Ape-man after M’Baku’s death. In this story, he appears as his long-suffering advisor.

 

 

The seat they added for M’Baku on the council isn’t exactly up to standard. It’s too small, for one. Jabari warriors have big asses and they’re proud of them. It creak under his bulk, which is even less pleasant. From the corner of his eye, he could see the Merchant tribe elder hide a grin. He swallowed back a comment and tried not to move too much.

 

They’d been unable to procure a vibranium fortified seat for him on such short notice, with the Princess and her tech corps too busy overseeing the repairs to the main laboratory. All the available vibranium was being used to fortify its walls, to repair the machines and rebuild the war ships.

 

Maybe it was for the better - M’Baku still wasn’t sure how he’d feel about sitting on something so obviously alien to him. It disgusts him no less than sitting on the stool of one of the other elders would, with their tribe’s etchings carved up the sides. Better that M’Baku wait, swallow the slight and the discomfort, until he could get something of his off the mountain. A piece of Jabari wood, perhaps, carved just the minimal amount to allow for comfort, and a visual reminder to the other elders, and to the king, of who M’Baku was, of who the Jabari were and what they stood for.

 

A rise in pitch from one of the elders had M’Baku snapping back to the conversation. His input hadn’t been needed for the last couple of minutes, as the elders discussed the minutiae details of rebuilding the Golden City with the king. The Jabari tribe’s dwellings stood undamaged, except for the warriors that wouldn’t be returning to them, but those were M’Baku’s business anyway. He’d rather die than have anyone else drag their names through their mouth.

 

Besides - Mandla stood somewhere behind him, in the gaggle of the ceremonial guard, and was committing the conversations around him to his eidetic memory. He and M’Baku could go over them with a fine-toothed comb later if his brother thought that was necessary. M’Baku had always trusted him to sort through the noise.

 

The elder’s yelling was due to the revelation that Erik Killmonger, once N'Jadaka, and briefly King of Wakanda, was indeed alive. M’Baku snorted, which went unnoticed in the pandemonium. Of course, N'Jadaka was alive - their new king was a good man. Too good for his own good, and M’Baku grinned at the pun. T’Challa wouldn’t let his estranged cousin die if there was any force in Wakanda that could save him. 

 

M’Baku had known that N'Jadaka’s body laid somewhere in the darker recesses of the laboratory before T’Challa even opened his mouth to announce it. For one, their new king was incredibly easy to read. And for two, gossip travelled fast in a palace. Especially if the staff thought that the Jabari savages wouldn’t understand their dialect.

 

Currently, the esteemed council of Wakanda rather resembled a gaggle of children, yelling over each other as the young king tried to establish order. Scratch that, Jabari children were much better behaved than this.

 

M’Baku rolled his eyes and gathered the air in his lungs to expel into a loud  _ huh _ that cut through the noise like a knife. He did it again, and again, his guard picking up the call, as it echoed in the vast throne room, filling it with a glimmer of the glory of Hanuman. 

 

M’Baku fell silent when he’s sure there was no other sound in the room and all eyes were on him. He let the silence settle, only for a moment, carefully reclining in his stool so that its creaking wouldn’t disturb it. He fixed his eyes on the king, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

 

“We will take him,” he said, and the eyes trained on him turned from belligerent to incredulous. “The Jabari could always use another set of hands. If he decides to hurl himself off a cliff instead, that’s none of my business.”

 

“You don’t have the means to restrain him.” The Princess, speaking out of turn, her disrespect for tradition grating as always. M’Baku didn’t give her the dignity of his attention, keeping his eyes on the king and the play of emotions on his face.

 

“Restrain him yourself,” M’Baku said, “put cuffs on him or lock him in a cage. We can display him in one of the town squares, make sure everyone knows how Wakanda treats its people.”

 

“We’re not putting him in a cage!” the king exploded, chest heaving.

 

Incredulity turned to outrage, and just before it could boil over, M’Baku grinned. “Just kidding,” he said, “we don’t have town squares, we live in a cave.”

 

In the silence that followed, M’Baku could hear Mandla sigh.

  
  


*

  
  


And that’s how M’Baku came out of his first council meeting with a war prisoner and the new king of Wakanda indebted to him once again. All in all, not bad for a day’s work. 

  
  


*

  
  


Their new prisoner came with an entirely unexpected set of problems. Now, the bloodlust M’Baku could deal with, but by Hanuman, the American could complain.

 

N'Jadaka didn’t look half bad for a dead man walking. Except for a slight limp, there was no sight of the injuries he sustained. The wonders of the Princess’s technology, M’Baku supposed. He refused to think about how many of his fellow warriors still walked behind him because of that same technology. M’Baku would be the first to admit that he was a man inclined towards a certain measure of hypocrisy. 

 

The prisoner had been bathed in the meantime, his dreadlocks washed free of matted blood. M’Baku drew in a surreptitious whiff of the air. N'Jadaka smelled like Wakandian perfumes now, instead of gunpowder and death. He couldn’t decide if it was an improvement.

 

All in all, N'Jadaka looked distressingly normal for someone who’d tried to take over the world (by proxy) just a scant week ago. The only hint as to his status were the rounded bracelets around his wrists. Subtle and unthreatening, they sapped N'Jadaka’s strength. The vibranium was so loud that its hum could be heard in the quieter turns on the path. Not that there were many of those, with the American around.

 

As mentioned, he complained. A lot. First, the restraints were too tight, and could his guards loosen them, pretty please? N'Jadaka promised them that he’d be, “A good boy,” with an unholy gleam in his eyes. M’Baku noticed one of the younger guards recoiling in embarrassment and made a mental note to replace him. A moment later, Mandla did it for him. His younger brother was a joy when he wasn’t trying to guilt-trip M’Baka about his diplomacy. 

 

Then, when that didn’t work, the prisoner moved to threats. He was creative, that was sure, and M’Baku mentally put away some of them because honestly, he’d reached his peak with the ‘I’ll feed you to my children’ line and he needed some new ideas. The Killmonger was also probably more than capable of carrying out most of them but weakened as he was, he couldn’t even hurt a rhino calf.

 

After an hour of walking, N'Jadaka exhausted his threats and moved on to more complaints. First of all, he was cold. M’Baku rolled his eyes. They hadn’t even reached the snow line and N'Jadaka was wrapped up in half a dozen thick quilts. 

 

“It never gets this cold in California!” N'Jadaka ranted, and M’Baku shot him an incredulous look. There was no way that he hadn’t been stationed anywhere where it was at least this cold or worse. But the prisoner was just getting started.

 

After the cold, he got thirsty, but he refused to drink any water out of the flasks provided by the guards because it ‘could be poisoned’. Which made no sense, since the man was apparently perfectly fine with dying a week ago. Finally, M’Baku scrapped a handful of snow off the floor and aimed it straight at his wide-open complaining mouth. 

 

“That’s not what I meant!” N'Jadaka yelled. M’Baku shrugged.

 

“The snow isn’t poisoned,” he pointed out.

 

“You could have pissed in it, you bastard, I don’t know that.”

 

“You should be so lucky,” M’Baku told him but that only did more to incense him.

 

And then, after more than half an hour of this, M’Baku saw it.

 

“I’m hungry,” N'Jadaka said.

 

The perfect opening.

 

M’Baku halted and slowly turned around to stare at him. N'Jadaka froze, smart enough to know when he was standing in the eye of a predator.

 

“Hi, hungry,” M’Baku said, with a slow-growing grin, “I’m M’Baku.”

 

N'Jadaka’s face was absolutely hysterical.

  
  


*

  
  


An ever bigger joy was N'Jadaka’s face when he learned that the dinner set out in front of him was entirely vegetarian.

 

“You fuckers!” he yelled, “I need my meat! How the fuck do you expect me to recover on this, this…” he picked up a piece of okra and then let it fall in disgust, “...rabbit food.”

 

M’Baku didn’t bother telling him that this rabbit food was responsible for his own thick thighs because it was at that moment that the cooks, in their endless desire to please, brought in a tray of pickled fish for N'Jadaka. His horrified face had the whole room in stitches, even the elders.

 

N'Jadaka settled into a quiet sulk. He ate everything that was on his plate though, and he hadn’t even blinked at the formidable spices that the cooks doused it with. That was good. That meant he could learn to live here, at least. 

 

After dinner, the coffee was brought out. M’Baku watched N'Jadaka as he carefully pulled the cup towards him, squinting at the dark liquid. He took a sip, and let out a quiet, punched out sound, staring at it in amazement.

 

M’Baku took a sip of his own cup. He knew what N'Jadaka was tasting. Deep and heavy, almost syrupy, with strong notes of blueberry and other fruits. An heirloom blend made to grow at high altitudes. They took their coffee seriously in Jabariland.

 

N'Jadaka must have sensed him staring because he looked up and met his gaze with a challenging look. “It could use some sugar and cream,” he said, just to be contrary.

 

“An unrefined palate,” M’Baku shot back, “you’ll learn.”

 

“Not likely,” N'Jadaka said, but it sounded weak at best.

  
  


*

  
  


As the evening drew to a close, the families rounded up their children and retired to their dwellings to sleep. M’Baku had relieved his guards for the night, keeping two to watch his back as he walked the perimeter of his home and checked up on traps, and on-duty guards. He didn’t strictly have to do that, but he was keyed up, misplaced adrenaline hitting him even out of what he still considered to be enemy territory. 

 

It was on the walk that he came upon N'Jadaka.

 

He stood upon a ledge, above a wide sprawling abyss. It was colder here than in the caves, where the temperature was constant and there were warming fires, but he didn’t even shiver, staring blankly into the darkness, his eyes glassy and distant.

 

“If you’re thinking of throwing yourself off, can you do me a favour and try to aim away from the cliffside? Clean-up can be a chore,” M’Baku suggested helpfully.

 

N'Jadaka swung around to look at him. There was something wild in his gaze, like a cornered animal, ready to make its last stand. M’Baku raised his hands, never mind the knobkierie hanging at his waist or the two guards ready to kill behind him.

 

N'Jadaka snarled. “I could kill you right now,” he said, and M’Baku had no doubt that he meant what he said, “I could go through the guards quarters one by one, slitting their throats. Then I’d move onto the women and children.”

 

M’Baku snorted. “Any of our women could break you in half in her sleep,” he pointed out, “the children probably could, even. Besides, did you think that those were just for show?” he nodded at N'Jadaka’s cuffs. “You can’t hurt anyone, or did the Princess not tell you?”

 

N'Jadaka stared at him, and then at his wrists. And then he promptly attempted to stab his nails through his own hand. The cuffs heated up red and he yelped and backed away, staring at them. The movement brought him closer to the edge. M’Baku sighed. Turns out that the whole family had an immense penchant for the worst dramatics.

 

“This is so fucking cruel,” N'Jadaka whispered, and for a moment, M’Baku almost felt sorry for him. 

 

“N'Jadaka-” M’Baku started, only to be interrupted.

 

N'Jadaka looked up from his restraints, pure fury transforming his face into something ugly. He advanced at M’Baku, hissing, “That is not my name!” between his teeth.

 

M’Baku blinked at him calmly, even as the guards behind him rattled nervously with their weapons. “What would you like to be called, then?” he asked. “Killmonger? That would be false advertising.”

 

The other man let out an angry scream, and then, all at once, it seemed as if the fury drained right out of his limbs, a terrifyingly cool mask sliding over his features, hiding everything underneath. This was a trained soldier and a brilliant tactician, and M’Baku would have been impressed if he weren’t resisting the impulse to put his knobkierie through his skull immediately.

 

“Erik,” the man said, “call me Erik.”

 

M’Baku shrugged. “Erik,” he said, wrapping his mouth around the alien vowels. For a brief moment, he thought he saw Erik’s mask slip. “Try not to make a mess around here.”

 

He turned around, despite his instincts telling him not to show his exposed back to the danger, and walked away. He was already a way down the tunnel when he heard Erik’s voice.

 

“I’ll aim for the closest rocks!” Erik yelled, and M’Baku couldn’t help it, he threw his head back and laughed. It echoed down the silent corridors.

  
  


*

  
  


Erik didn’t throw himself off the ledge by the next morning, so M’Baku went to fetch him from his room. He found him lying on the bed, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling blankly. He looked exhausted, so chances were he hadn’t slept at all. He didn’t move when M’Baku came in, so he marched to the bed and pulled the duvet from under him, dumping him onto the floor.

 

“What the fuck?” Erik yelled, his hair flopping into his face.

 

“Have you eaten?” M’Baku asked, cutting him off before he could go on another tirade. Erik shook his head. “We’ll pick something up from the kitchen. Come on.” 

 

Erik might not have been one of his warriors, but he was trained to obey that tone of voice. He followed.

 

They did pick up a snack from the kitchens, which Erik ate with a minimum of complaint. It was past noon and lunchtime. M’Baku had been awake since early morning, dealing with the problems that had sprung up in his brief absence. His afternoon was free, up until the burials of their lost warriors were scheduled that evening.

 

Erik was quiet. His exhaustion seemed to have robbed him of most of his righteous fury, and he just followed M’Baku through his rounds with a blank expression on his face.

 

That wouldn’t do.

 

M’Baku led him up, and up, through several sets of cleverly carved stairs. The altitude shift was enough to dizzy someone unused to it, but Erik leaned on the wall and kept going. M’Baku had to reach out to keep him from falling over once they emerged into the open.

 

Before them, the fields stretched across the mountain plateau, and a wide assortment of vegetables grew from raised vegetable beds. Above them, branches of the Jabari trees curved towards the sky, providing shelter from the wind, and concentrating light and distributing water with their leaves. Below, their roots controlled the temperature of the ground and fueled the watering system. It was basically a giant greenhouse, made to fuel their vegetarian lifestyle. 

 

This was the Jabari’s power, closer to their roots than the alien borne vibranium and even more preciously guarded.

 

M’Baku looked at Erik proudly, expecting wonder. All he got was the same blank expression. Their eyes met, and Erik raised an eyebrow. “So what?” he said. 

 

M’Baku shrugged, and squashed his upset feelings , to pick up two woven baskets off a pile to the side of the wooden building that housed the controls for the watering system and a common area for the farmers. He headed off towards the vegetable beds, listening for the careful steps behind him that meant Erik was following.

 

The farmers greeted him with quiet warmth, calling out updates on the state of their crops, of the weather, of the consistency of their soil. It was their own specific kind of language, and M’Baku enjoyed it, even if it wasn’t about wars or power. This place kept his people fed and clothed, and he’d learned to love it for that.

 

The worker’s voices grew quieter once they caught sight of Erik behind him, immediately suspicious. They were more cautious than Wakandians from other tribes, less likely to trust. This was good - there was less of a chance that Erik could influence them.

 

Finally, M’Baku was allowed to approach one of the vegetable beds and he dug enthusiastically into the soil, loosening the yam enough to pull it out and clean it off. Erik had stopped where the grass met the soil and was watching him warily.

 

“What is it now?” M’Baku asked him. Erik shrugged and for a moment he almost looked embarrassed.

 

“This is my only pair of boots,” he said pointing down. And the ground was wet and sticky, M’Baku summarized. He didn’t want to get them dirty.

 

“Seems like you are…” M’Baku said, holding up the vegetable, “...in a bit of a  _ yam _ .”

 

Erik stared at him incredulously. “Are you for real?” he asked.

 

M’Baku grinned and bounded towards another vegetable bed. “You lost your p- _ okra _ face!” he said, holding up a seed pod. Erik actually groaned out loud and covered his face. There was the barest hint of a smile twitching at his mouth.

 

“I’m going back to the Golden city right now to ask T’Challa to put his claws through my chest.”

 

“Your obsession with murder is very  _ cowpea _ .”

 

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

  
  


*

  
  


It was that little hint of a smile that had M’Baku straying off his planned route after he’d picked up the vegetables. Instead of returning to the palace, he led Erik deeper into the mountain until they came to a stop behind a thick wooden door. 

 

“Behave yourself now,” he said to Erik, who just glared at him over the two baskets that he’d been relegated to carrying. M’Baku knocked on the door in a designated pattern. It changed every day, so he wasn’t that worried about Erik overhearing. The door was opened by a guard, who smiled when she saw M’Baku.

 

“Just in time,” she said, “Auntie Dedeke said you would come.”

 

M’Baku didn’t bother asking how she could have known. Auntie Dedeke was from a long line of spirit guides. It was entirely possible that she knew he was coming before he even decided it.

 

The guard opened another set of doors, and on cue, the sound of children’s laughter echoed in the hall. And a moment later, something small came flying out to attach to M’Baku’s legs with an enthusiastic, “Baba!”

 

He felt a laugh bubbling in his throat and let the basket drop in order to haul the child up in his arms. “You get bigger every time I see you, Korede,” he told the girl, who giggled and pressed her face into his neck.

 

“Maybe you’re just getting weaker, baba,” she said, just before the rest of his children came running out of the playroom to gather around him with enthusiastic cries, clamouring for his attention, climbing onto him to put their sticky hands onto his cheeks, to brush his hair.

 

There were two dozen of them, of varying ages; from Mayowa, almost a man at sixteen and Mandla’s favourite pupil, to Tayo, who toddled after the others on unsteady feet, grinning widely when M’Baku picked him up with his other hand to perch him on his hip.

 

“Well, well, look who’s back from the mainland.” Auntie Dedeke was a heavyset old woman, with a wide smile and sharp eyes. She looked unthreatening if you didn’t know that she was once one of Jabari tribe’s best warriors.

 

“Hi, Auntie,” M’Baku said, rolling his eyes. “We brought you some provisions.” He nodded at the baskets that Erik was carrying. She looked over and her eyes sharpened.

 

“How nice of you,” she said, flatly, “are you and your friend staying for dinner?”

 

There was an emphasis on the word ‘friend’ that he cheerfully overlooked. He wouldn’t have brought Erik here if he hadn’t been absolutely sure that he was harmless, and she wouldn’t be the right caretaker to his children if she just accepted that at face value.

 

She picked up the basket on the floor and then accepted the ones in Erik’s hands with a gracious nod. She then stacked them on her head as if they weighed nothing and disappeared off into the living spaces. 

 

The children scattered off to find everything they needed to show to M’Baku, leaving him and Erik briefly alone, except for Tayo who snuffled into M’Baku’s chest, momentarily content.

 

“They’re all yours?” Erik said, and he sounded almost impressed. M’Baku caught him giving a speculative glance to his groin and snorted. 

 

“Not my seed,” M’Baku told him, hoisting Tayo further up on his chest so he could rest more comfortably, “it’s custom that every orphaned child of the tribe becomes my child. I take care of them and they take on my name.”

 

“How does succession work?” Erik asked because of course that was the first thing he thought of. Tayo turned around at the sound of his voice and made a face at him. Erik stuck out his tongue at him, which had Tayo giggling and hiding his face shyly in M’Baku’s neck.

 

“My brother,” M’Baku said, shrugging, “and then his eldest daughter. She’s ready for it if anything happens to us. But, anyone can challenge for succession if they want to. The strongest leads the tribe.”

 

“So, if I beat you up, I’d be the next Jabari lord?” Erik asked, speculative. M’Baku couldn’t help it - he threw his head back and laughed.

 

“I’d like to see you try,” he said between chuckles, “but also, no. You’re an outsider. No one would tolerate you on the throne. They’d strike you down where you stood.”

 

Erik frowned. “Good thing you aren’t in my plans anyway,” he said breezily as if that was supposed to be an insult. M’Baku rolled his eyes.

 

And then the children returned, carrying toys and homework and makeshift weapons, all things that required M’Baku’s urgent attention. They were as insistent as his advisors and much more pleasant to indulge. 

 

He spent the rest of the afternoon playing with them until Auntie Dedeke called them in for dinner. Erik sat in the corner of the room the whole time, quiet and entirely still, like a statue, his eyes tracking M’Baku’s every move.

  
  


*

  
  


“You’re a good dad,” Erik said to him after the children were sent to bed and the doors were shut behind them. He seemed surprised.

 

M’Baku shrugged. “I’m not around as much as I’d want to be,” he said.

 

“They love you,” Erik said, with an unreadable look on his face. 

 

“I hope so,” M’Baku told him. 

 

“Why…” Erik hesitated. “...why did you take me to see them?”

 

“No reason,” M’Baku lied. “I wanted to see them and I had nowhere to put you in the meantime. You should get used to that.”

 

“So, what, I’m a burden now?” Erik glared at him, all hesitance forgotten. 

 

M’Baku shrugged, enjoying how that seemed to fuel his fury. Once Erik started ranting, he didn’t need anyone else’s input, and he kept going all the way to his room. M’Baku patted his shoulder, avoided a retaliatory swipe that had Erik yelping as his cuffs heated up, and left.

  
  


*

  
  


On their second visit, Korede carefully approached Erik with a doll whose button eye had fallen off and asked him if he knew how to fix it. He started at her for a moment, then reached out to take it. He was surprisingly handy with a needle and thread.

  
  


*

  
  


On his evening rounds, M’Baku found Erik overlooking the cliffside again. Same darkness. Same blank stare.

 

Autumn had given way to winter and it was bitterly cold, especially in the mountains. In his light tunic, Erik was shivering.

 

“You’re going to have to improve your constitution if you’re planning on standing here all the time. We don’t have Wakanda’s miracle cures - and even if we had, we wouldn’t waste it on a cold,” M’Baku said, strolling up to stand next to Erik. 

 

Erik shrugged. Well, it was more like a shiver. “I’m fine,” he said. He obviously wasn’t.

 

M’Baku waited for him to say anything else, but he didn’t, so he sighed, and unbuckled his outer layer. It was monkey fur, thick and warm, and he felt the chill immediately when he slid it off and dropped it around Erik’s shoulders.

 

Erik turned to glare at him. “I don’t need your pity,” he hissed at him, through his hands betrayed him, fingers curling into the warmth of the coat, tugging it closer.

 

M’Baku held his gaze dispassionately. “I don’t have any to give,” he said.

 

“Fuck you,” Erik snarled, but his tone had an air of desperation to it. Whoever he was talking to, it didn’t seem like it was M’Baku.

 

M’Baku shrugged. “You can give me the coat back then,” he said.

 

Erik frowned, his gaze clearing somewhat. “No way,” he said, “you gave it to me, it’s mine now.”

 

M’Baku rolled his eyes, said, “As you wish,” then turned around and walked away.

 

“You better not mean that in the Princess Bride way!” Erik yelled after him, which made absolutely no sense and also did nothing to dissuade the warm feeling rising in M’Baku’s chest.

  
  


*

 

By the fourth visit to the children, Erik had constructed a basketball out of old leather and glue and was attempting to keep it bouncing for long enough to teach them how to play.

  
  


*

  
  


Erik had taken to wearing M’Baku’s furs around the compound. It made several people a lot more willing to speak to him, probably, but it also warmed M’Baku to see him wearing it, so he didn’t ask him to stop. 

 

Mandla took to shooting him warning glances and threatened to take a leave of absence for the third time that week.

  
  


*

  
  


Winter melted into spring, which dried into summer. It was cooler in the mountains than out in the plains but the sunlight concentrated in the greenhouse, making the heat there downright intolerable. 

 

It also meant that the watermelons grew plump and sweet underneath the canopy, and that was a worthy trade-off.

 

M’Baku had cut one off its vine and split it open for him and Erik to share. They sat on one of the ledges, legs dangling, and competed in who could spit the seeds the furthest.

 

They had both pulled off their tunics so they wouldn’t strain them with watermelon juice and M’Baku caught himself staring at the contours of Erik’s abdominals, at the shape of his bicep. Erik kept up his impressive physique, even of all he could use it for these days was heavy lifting.

 

“Are you looking at these?” Erik asked, grinning smugly while flexing. It took M’Baku a moment to figure out that he meant his markings. In his defence, he was a little distracted.

 

“The marks?” M’Baku snorted. “You’re not the only one that has those.”

 

He stood up and despite an instinctual urge to not turn his back on Erik, he did it anyway. And started taking off his pants.

 

“What are you-” Erik started, then trailed off. M’Baku knew what he was seeing.

 

Raised white markings spanning the length of his thighs, trailing up his back. Jabari tradition of honouring the dead. There weren’t as many as on Erik’s body, where they filled his chest, his back, his legs, and presumably, whatever was hidden under his clothes. Some even looked fairly fresh, not yet completely scarred, and M’Baku wondered how old they were if the cuffs even let Erik do anything to hurt his body, even that.

 

He sat back down and picked up the rest of his watermelon. After a delayed moment, Erik spoke.

 

“And here I thought I was special,” he said.

 

“Only we still do these in Wakanda,” M’Baku told him. “And even then, it’s rare.”

 

“Why do you do it?” Erik asked. He wasn’t looking at M’Baku, instead down, over the ledge and to the river below that constantly filled the air with the sound of its passage, like a low-grade hum in the background that you had to get used to.

 

“It’s tradition,” M’Baku said, and for him, that explained everything. It wouldn’t be enough for Erik through. “Also, they just look sexy,” M’Baku added, grinning.

 

Erik looked at him, and then he laughed. Once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop, flopping on his back into the grass, his whole body shaking with the force of it. 

 

After some time, his laughter gave way to tears, and ugly heaving sobs. M’Baku looked away and pretended he didn’t see them but he didn’t leave.

  
  


*

 

M’Baku returned from the Wakandian council with news of T’Challa’s newly planned liaison with the rest of the world. His advisors weren’t happy with it. He wasn’t particularly happy with it either. He sensed that Mandla actually kind of liked the idea, but his brother would never show it openly.

 

In any case, he’d managed to extract a deal that the Jabari or their precious wood wouldn’t be engaged in any of the trade. In fact, T’Challa had promised that he wouldn’t mention their existence to any outsiders. M’Baku had no doubt that this wouldn’t last forever, but it did give them some time to decide what their options were.

 

A few hours of yelling and a semi-functional plan later, M’Baku dismissed his advisors and called for Erik. No doubt news had already spread, but he’d prefer for him to hear it from M’Baku instead of from rumours.

 

Erik strode into the throne room like he owned it. He was incensed, his raised hackles evident in the way he snarled at a guard that wouldn’t get out of his way. M’Baku had also learned to read his moods well enough to know that he was scared.

 

“So?” he asked, stopping at the base of the throne and looking up with a defiant tilt of his chin.

 

“The king sends his regards,” M’Baku told him.

 

“Like fuck he does,” Erik snorted. T’Challa had, actually, awkwardly asked after his cousin’s health and well-being, and M’Baku had him convinced that Erik had painted the cliffs red for a few minutes before T’Challa had started looking pale and he couldn’t keep himself from laughing anymore.

 

“Your other cousin says that you should go fuck yourself.” The Princess had actually been more creative in her threats but M’Baku didn’t bother memorizing them all.

 

“That I do believe,” Erik said dryly. “What are you hiding from me?”

 

So M’Baku told him. About the speech, and the cultural exchange centres, and by the end of it, Erik was pacing the length of the throne room, every inch the big cat he had once briefly become.

 

“I thought this was what you wanted,” M’Baku said after he finished, and Erik hadn’t stopped pacing.

 

“I am!” Erik said, then frowned. “Or, I’m not. I don’t know. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

 

“Chaos and destruction?” M’Baku suggested, dryly.

 

“Well, yes,” Erik said, “I figured there’d be more of that.”

 

M’Baku let him stew in silence for a while, watching him pace. His gaze lingered on his wide shoulders, on the arch of his neck, on his hair, growing too long and curling in his face. He’d need to get that cut but there weren’t many people that Erik trusted around his head with a blade or scissors. 

 

He watched Erik and for once, he let the warmth rise in his chest and settle comfortably in his heart. These days, Erik was rarely without the furs M’Baku gave him, even if it was summer. M’Baku admitted to himself that this pleased him.

 

“What will you do now?” he asked. 

 

Erik shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have a goal anymore. I don’t belong anywhere.”

 

He didn’t sound particularly upset about it. Like it was just a fact of life, and maybe that’s why it felt so heartbreaking to hear.

 

Suddenly feeling shy, M’Baku coughed. “You could belong here if you wanted to.”

 

“Oh, yeah, because you’re all so welcoming to outsiders,” Erik laughed. “What was it? You could always use another pair of hands and if I fell off the cliffs, you wouldn’t care?”

 

M’Baku winced. “Things are a bit different now,” he said, “for one, you’re a proven pair of hands and there are more than a few people that would care if you ended up in the river.”

 

The children adored him.

 

“What, just like that?” Erik said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Well, there’s your cuffs,” M’Baku said, awkwardly, “you can’t live with those on all your life. The next time I go to the Golden City, you’ll come with me and I can vouch for you in front of the king, and the council.”

 

Erik blinked at him. “Oh, these?” he said, holding up his hands so the bracelets caught the light, “I reverse engineered them months ago. They’re just for decoration now.”

 

There was no tell-tale sound of the vibranium when he moved. In hindsight, there hadn’t been for a while now. And there was a moment where M’Baku’s hand moved instinctively towards his knobkierie, a call for his guards forming on his tongue. 

 

And then he looked at Erik, who was just the same as he was a minute ago. Exhausted, and beaten down, but also familiar. And beautiful.

 

Erik knew about the greenhouses. He knew the layout of the caves. He knew where the children were. If he wanted to, he could ruin them. He could have ruined them months ago.

 

M’Baku relaxed back into his seat and took a deep breath. Erik’s eyes snapped from his hands to his face. “How?” M’Baku asked, simply.

 

“I graduated top of my class at MIT at 19,” Erik said dryly, “and I had a lot of free time between you dragging me off to pick vegetables and entertain your gaggle of children.”

 

M’Baku laughed and shook his head. “I guess I’ll have to give you more responsibilities then, to keep you busy,” he paused. “That is if you want to stay?”

 

Erik looked uncertain. “And what?” he asked. “You’ll adopt me into your gaggle of children?”

 

M’Baku stared at him incredulously. And then he stood up, descending the stairs so he stood in front of Erik. 

 

“What I feel for you is less than fatherly,” he told him. He could tell that Erik got it by the way his eyes darkened and dropped to his lips.

 

“Oh,” Erik said, looking dazed, “that’s cool.”

 

He then reached out, grabbed M’Baku’s shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss.

 

*

 

“Knock, knock.”

 

“...who’s there?”

 

“M’Baku.”

 

“M’Baku who?”

 

“M’Baku to love you some more!”

 

“...you know, on second thought, those cliffs look suddenly very appealing.”

 

“I thought you liked my strong Jabari wood?”

 

“...maybe if I asked T’Challa, he’d stab me with a spear again? Anything to escape this hell.”

 

“Too late, you’re stuck here now.”

 

“Can you please just stop talking and go back to kissing me?”

.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- A lot of my knowledge of the Jabari as well as the characterization of M’Baku is based on [this Entertainment Weekly interview](http://ew.com/movies/2018/02/21/black-panther-winston-duke-mbaku-insight-photos/) with Winston Duke ).  
> On Jabari wood: “...this is something we didn’t get to interrogate deeply in the film, but everything for them is based around this Jabari wood that comes from this sacred tree. Everything in Jabari land is made out of this sacred wood that can essentially go toe-to-toe with a Vibranium sword or a Vibranium weapon because it’s this tempered, strong, treated wood.”  
> \- all of the ideas about how they grow vegetables are derived from that. It’s hard to grow vegetables in high altitudes, because of the shortened day and the cold and a look at the official map of Wakanda shows that Jabariland has no flatland to speak of. So there must be some way for them to maintain their vegetarian lifestyle, and they aren’t nomads, so they aren’t gatherers. This was my solution.  
> \- M’Baku does mention that ‘Jabari fishermen’ found T’Challa by the river, so it’s entirely possible that they do eat some fish  
> \- The vegetables that the Jabari grow are native African vegetables, including yam, okra, cowpea, watermelon and, of course, coffee. If you’re interested in this topic, I really liked the [Introduction chapter](https://www.nap.edu/read/11763/chapter/2#12) of the Lost Crops of Africa, Volume 2  
> \- Coffee blends from Africa are often said to have a ‘fruity’ flavor to them  
> \- All of the names of M’Baku’s children, as well as Auntie Dedeke, are taken from the Yoruba dialect, which is what the Jabari speak in the movies  
> \- I made up the backstory with the kids, because he mentions them in the movie, and in part because I wanted to continue the idea of fatherhood that was such a powerful storyline in the film  
> \- in the Princess Bride movie, the words 'As you wish,' are spoken instead of 'I love you.'  
> \- If Erik graduated from MIT at 19, there isn’t much of a stretch to say that he’s a sort of a genius too? Not on Shuri’s level, because no one is on her level, but enough that he’d be able to figure out how his cuffs work eventually
> 
> Tell me what you think? Anything I missed? Anything in particular you liked? Let me know in the comments.


End file.
